Cohen stepped out of the greenhouse, having just spotted Voldemort's soul strength marker near the wall to the right of the exit…
Beyond that wall was a stretch of grass, and past that, the Black Lake.
The marker had been hovering close to the corner of the wall… Was Voldemort seriously crawling around on the ground or something?
As Cohen approached the turn, his mind raced with possibilities—maybe Voldemort had snagged himself a new temporary body—
Cohen stared at the empty grass, frowning.
The soul strength marker was still there, but there was no sign of anyone—not even a flicker of a soul.
The source of that marker had to be underground…
Cohen's gaze shifted to the Black Lake nearby. Hogwarts' plumbing drained into the lake—he remembered Moaning Myrtle getting flushed down a toilet into it once.
So, Voldemort had snuck in through the lake?
Too scared to take the front door? What a coward.
Cohen wondered if calling him a "pus-filled blister" was still giving him too much credit.
This wasn't just popping at the prick of a needle—this guy wanted to self-destruct the second Dumbledore so much as glanced his way…
How was he supposed to be the big bad final boss? He didn't even hold a candle to Grindelwald.
Suddenly, Voldemort's soul marker jolted—racing toward the castle like it was zipping through the pipes. Cohen picked up his pace, trying to keep up.
But the closer it got to the castle, the "farther" it felt. Cohen watched as it sank deeper underground until—
Someone yelped, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground.
Cohen had been so focused on tracking Voldemort below that he'd accidentally rammed into someone—Lockhart, who'd been walking back from the greenhouse too.
"Oh, Professor, you're that easy to knock over?" Cohen "apologized."
"Ha, I could protect myself with magic anytime," Lockhart said, rubbing his sore back as he struggled up from the ground. "But I didn't want to risk hurting you with a defensive spell—you know, my powerful magic can be pretty dangerous…"
Cohen didn't have time to chat with Lockhart, though. Voldemort's soul marker was diving deeper underground, and it took all his focus to keep tracking it with his eyes—
"Wait… weren't you just in Herbology?" Lockhart said, squinting at the distracted Cohen as it clicked.
"Sorry—stomachache! Gotta hit the bathroom fast!" Cohen tossed out an excuse and bolted toward the castle.
Voldemort's path wound through the underground pipes, but Hogwarts' above-ground layout didn't match the sprawling network below. After dodging around eight classrooms and three moving staircases, Cohen lost sight of the soul marker completely.
"Darn it! Little Voldy, why're you hiding from me?!"
Cohen was ticked off. Hadn't their partnership gone smoothly enough? Did Voldemort really think Cohen would screw him over?
Was there so little trust between a guy and a Dementor?!
The chase stalled out in a third-floor corridor. Cohen had lost his target—but not entirely.
This hallway happened to lead to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom—the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
Voldemort might've made the Chamber his current hideout. As Slytherin's heir, he'd been there fifty years ago, unleashing the Basilisk.
As for why Slytherin stuck the Chamber's entrance in a girls' bathroom… If Cohen ever got the chance to write a rogue history book, he'd go with "Slytherin was too much of a freak to fit in with the other three founders and ditched the school in disappointment."
Water stains streaked the floor, and faint sobs echoed from the bathroom.
Cohen pushed the door open—no one ever came here anymore, so he wouldn't get called a creep…
Myrtle was perched on top of a stall partition, weeping softly and muttering to herself.
"Full of pimples… ugly as sin… woo-hoo…"
The sound of Cohen entering caught her attention.
She shrieked when she saw him, diving straight into the stall below—but a few seconds later, her eyes peeked out through the partition.
"You're that… Dementor Nick was talking about!"
"Word's gotten around the ghost grapevine, huh?" Cohen said, closing the bathroom door behind him. "But I don't actually hurt ghosts—I'm a good guy. Or, well, a good monster."
"Nick said you bit him once," Myrtle said suspiciously, still hiding in the stall. "'Like dying all over again,' that's what he said…"
"I'm pretty sure he did it on purpose," Cohen clarified. "He popped up out of my plate while I was gnawing on a lamb leg—obviously trying to get me to chomp his neck clean off. Bad spot to pick, though."
Myrtle plunged into the toilet with a splash—apparently still too spooked to face a creature that could harm ghosts, no matter how much she moped about death…
Cohen had wanted to ask if she'd seen the pipe entrance get opened recently, but she was already gone.
With Myrtle speed-ditching him, Cohen decided to poke around on his own.
In the center of the bathroom was a circular sink setup. It didn't take long to spot the faucet leading to the Chamber—a copper one with a tiny snake etched into its side. All it took was saying "open" in Parseltongue to unlock the pipe.
Problem was, Cohen didn't exactly have Parseltongue as an active skill in his brain… Maybe he'd have to pull a Harry and pretend the faucet was a snake to make it work?
He wasn't sure, but he figured he'd give it a shot…
Cohen's eyes widened mid-attempt—he heard another voice, raspy and definitely not his own echo.
That soul strength marker he'd thought was Voldemort popped up again—right beneath his feet in the floor's pipes.
That soul… it wasn't Voldemort. It was the Basilisk?
What was the Basilisk up to? The heir hadn't shown up to kick off its killing spree yet—why was it jumping into the plot now?
Cohen tried—but it came out in plain English. He could tell the difference.
Dang it, could he actually speak Parseltongue?
The Basilisk was slithering through the pipes below him. Cohen had one trick up his sleeve—he could leave his body as a soul and pass through the floor to see it.
But that was risky as heck.
The Basilisk could harm spirits—Nearly Headless Nick got petrified by its stare in the original story.
That thought made Cohen second-guess whether he'd be immune to its gaze. No one had ever tested a Basilisk against a Dementor.
Sure, he wouldn't die, but getting turned to stone until the Mandrake potion was ready would waste half his school year.